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Eleanor would pitch, probably southpaw. Rosalind was outfield, wonderful
hitter, Clara first base, maybe. Wonder what Humbird's body looked like
now. If he himself hadn't been bayonet instructor he'd have gone up
to line three months sooner, probably been killed. Where's the darned
The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured by the mist and
dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny, but Amory had
finally caught sight of one--One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. He
got off and with no distinct destination followed a winding, descending
sidewalk and came out facing the river, in particular a long pier and
a partitioned litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches,
canoes, rowboats, and catboats. He turned northward and followed the
shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great disorderly
yard adjoining a dock. The hulls of many boats in various stages of
repair were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the scarcely
distinguishable fiat odor of the Hudson. A man approached through the
"Hello," said Amory.
"Got a pass?"
"No. Is this private?"
"This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club."
"Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting."
"Well--" began the man dubiously.
"I'll go if you want me to."
The man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on. Amory
seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward thoughtfully
until his chin rested in his hand.
"Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly.
IN THE DROOPING HOURS
While the rain drizzled on Amory looked futilely back at the stream of
his life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. To begin with, he was
still afraid--not physically afraid any more, but afraid of people and
prejudice and misery and monotony. Yet, deep in his bitter heart, he
wondered if he was after all worse than this man or the next. He knew
that he could sophisticate himself finally into saying that his own
weakness was just the result of circumstances and environment; that
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